Bones and Sugar
by madasmonty
Summary: After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? Multi-chaptered. Sequel to "Blood and Tea".
1. Chapter One

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter One**

_"__We meet people, and fall in love. But when we part, they leave marks for us to remember them by. Our lovers sculpt us, they define us for better or worse__…"  
– __**George, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 4**_

**Cutler**

The days were summer, but the nights still dipped a ladle into the well of cool spring air, sending a flurry of scents dancing through the deep blue-black sky and making the wind howl with ferocious intensity. The stars offered no comfort as they once had done – _Stars are holes in the floor of Heaven, Rachel – _but remained instead to be exactly what they were: balls of dying gas a million miles away. No longer did the nights whisper the promise of daylight, if Nick just waited a few hours more, but rather dragged into the morning with a painful lethargy.

The urges were always stronger at night, hissing at him from the poisoned, cancerous growth that was his mind. Why was he even trying to stay on the wagon? What was the point, when they alternative was so appealing? Wouldn't he be better off sneaking out in the dead of night, under the cover of the darkness, and never looking back?

He knew why, of course. The threat of Hal hung over his head in his every conscious second – his personal sword of Damocles – even when the Old One wasn't physically with him, the memory of him was. This madness had been his creator's idea, and Nick couldn't disobey. Even now, over half a century after his abandonment, he still bent to Hal's will. He was too afraid to consider another option; his fear was engrained flesh deep and unshakable.

The first morning after they had agreed, Hal eagerly and Nick warily, to go dry had been the worst he could remember having for a long time. As the first bird chirped, at some ungodly hour, Nick was finishing buttoning his shirt. He had got hardly any sleep – the figurative ghost of the previous owner of his room had been staring at him – and the idea that he couldn't leave the house and go for a late night snack was torturous. He was acutely aware of Hal, sleeping just down the hall. He could just kill him – as he'd so often imagined doing – and be done with all this. But something, some primal part of his mind, stopped him. It might have been more than fear, he pondered. Something quite the opposite. What was it that Hal had said? Love.

Not, he clarified to himself, the love he had felt for Rachel – that aching need to hold her and tell her he was so, sorry – but a more loyal kind of feeling. He wanted to make Hal proud that he'd been chosen for vampirism, and prove that he was worthy of immortality. Having forgotten, for too long, what it was like to be in love, Nick had trouble untangling and separating the two. Was his infatuation with a blood kind of love? Hal had called it an addiction. But that implied it was something bad, something wrong. Nick had come to think, over the years, that he was just adhering to his bodily needs – just as a lioness hunts, or a human destroys, so he drank blood. He was a vampire after all, wasn't he? Surely he was just fulfilling the universe's expectations of him?

However, coupled with his confusing feelings about pleasing Hal, there came the need to do as he instructed. And, unfortunately, that meant staying off the blood. For the time being anyway. He knew his maker too well to know that this was just a phase, and he'd already had a taste of life off the wagon anyway. Annie had awkwardly suggested a humane charade of a kind of Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, in which the two vampires confessed their most recent kills to one another. Nick had surprised himself at feeling a pang of guilt when he recalled Jeffery Hope and his unfinished beef sandwich. And then he'd been surprised even further when Hal had told him of the young girl, with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, who'd been all too willing. He couldn't stop the impressive feeling creep into his gaze, earning a glare from the other vampire, when he'd heard of her violent decapitation. Sadistically, he flashed a grin when Hal spoke of trying to glue her head back on and almost laughed at the mental image that conjured up.

Suddenly a strange sound had come from Hal – like he was drowning in porridge. Nick had glanced up from staring at his interlocked fingers while trying not to smile manically, and stared at his creator. He was greeted with large brown eyes filling with tears and had no idea what to do. For reasons beyond him, Hal had been even more affected by the death of this nameless slut than Nick had been by the death of Jeffery Hope. The Old One hadn't made any more noises except an occasional hitching breath as the tears tracked down his face, didn't move save his shoulders rising and falling at regular intervals.

Nick didn't move from his frozen position on the sofa, unable to tear his gaze from Hal. He felt like he should have done something but he didn't have a clue what. Hug him? Leave the room? But every time he considered trying to do anything, his maker's words reverberated in his mind: _You are no longer weak, are you Nick?_ The Mr York he knew – the one he'd feared – had viewed emotion of any kind, aside morbid elation and hatred, as a weakness. Love, sorrow and regret were to be pushed to the furthest reaches of one's soul and left to wither and die. And yet here he was, preaching about love, being human and… and crying for God's sake.

Eventually Hal stood up and walked silently to the stairs. He didn't look back at Nick, and Nick, in turn, didn't dare glance at him, keeping his eyes instead trained on the sofa where Hal had just been sitting. No words passed between them, but nothing needed to be said.

_I'm sorry, Mr York. I didn't know what to do._

_I know, Nick; I understand._

After Hal had left Nick felt a stab of that irritating guilt again – he'd been getting it more and more frequently of late – and he leant over and clutched his stomach, as if to hold in the sadness. Fifty years of guilt suddenly fell over him as an invisible weight. Every single drop of blood he'd ever spilt was staining his vision; every scream he'd caused rang in his ears; each kiss that had been preludes to death tingled on his lips; the scent of rotting flesh filled his nostrils. He wanted to hit something and in the past, when this feeling had overcome him, he would have gone out and killed someone. Drowned his sadness in blood until it felt like joy and the faces of the long-dead were replaced by the sight of opened veins.

But he couldn't do that – he wasn't _allowed_. And even urges were overshadowed by the threat of Hal. He knew, as pathetic as his creator appeared now, that he would be hunted to the ends of the earth if ran away. If not as soon as he left, then in a decade or a century. He would be hunted like prey and killed. Gritting his teeth and tensing every muscle in his body, Nick tried to deny the undeniable and repeated in his head again and again: _This is not happening; this is not happening._ For the past half a century, he had prided himself on his ability to crush his emotions. But, however much he tried to ignore it, he couldn't dispute the fact that tears were streaming down his face.

_You are no longer weak, are you Nick?_

And, this time, Nick gave the honest answer in his memory, distorting the facts to suite his own feelings: _Yes I am, Mr York. I am still as weak as the first day you recruited me._


	2. Chapter Two

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

_"__I've killed more people than you've met_._…"  
– __**Mitchell, "Being Human", Series 2 Episode 3**_

**Hal**

The sun was so bright it was almost like being blind. It was all he could see: Light and light, dazzling, colourless, filling his head like water in a bowl. It was like a blazing fog, dropped across the landscape. If it wasn't for the sunlight he'd be able to see for miles. There were black stars growing in front of his eyes, unfolding and closing again, but he kept staring. Because somewhere behind that glare of light there were the walking victims of his crimes – the families of the people he'd killed. Somewhere, under that shining pall was the graves, some unknown, of his kills. Some were so far away it would take days to get to them. But he knew that, if he looked hard enough, he'd see them. If he could stare at the sun without blinking, then he'd seen every one of them. Just for a second, before his eyes burnt out. But it would be worth going blind for. His eyes were stinging and he felt water on his eyelashes. But he couldn't hold his gaze at the sun anymore; it hurt too much. So he looked down instead.

The grey pavement seemed further down than it was, and Hal knew he'd certainly survive if he fell from this height. The slanted roof was easily accessible from the front window of Honolulu Heights, and the climb had been a welcome excursion. Swinging and clambering onto the roof, he'd been sitting there for a few hours now, just pondering. He had settled into a sprawled position across the tiles and stared at passers-by. The thought that he could leap down onto their heads and snap their necks without them even realising had been gnawing at his mind for some time, so he'd glared at the sun to distract himself.

The B&B had been too constricting – Nick hadn't come out of his room since Hal had broken down and Annie was going through all the cutlery in the kitchen, throwing out all he implements considered "dangerous". They all knew that the real threats were Nick and himself, but nobody contradicted her on it. Everyone dealt with grief differently, Hal knew this, and Annie's purge seemed to be her way of blocking out her sorrow.

The loss of Owen had been a necessity, Hal knew that. The newly-recruited vampire was a liability – too insane to function and too deadly to let go free. He was collateral damage. Hal knew he had to kill Owen from the moment he learnt of the vicious death of the doctor at St Michaels – which had been put down by the media to the same murderer of Jeffrey Hope, the taxi driver, and Nancy Walker, the student – but he'd tried to push the thought from his mind. Perhaps Owen could've been reasoned? But, when Hal and Annie had reached Nick and Owen and found they'd formed an uneasy alliance, he knew the younger vampire had to go.

While Nick was obviously unhinged too, Hal knew that he could still think rationally. As much as Nick had the ability to destroy Hal's carefully-built new life at Honolulu Heights, Hal knew that he was too afraid of the consequences to dare to spill his past secrets. When he'd first shown up he'd been on the edges of sanity, not considering his own safety when he'd threatened to tell Annie of Hal's past. But now, having been given time to reflect, Nick had come to the conclusion that it wasn't worth breaking the life that they had at Honolulu Heights for the sake of past hatred. They knew, without needing to say it, that Nick would be killed for ruining Hal's new life. Not to mention the fact that he'd also found a home there, and he'd be homeless too if he revealed too much of Hal's past.

Sighing and letting himself slip down the roof, Hal landed his feet in the gutter. He went from sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs hanging over the roof, to leaping onto the window ledge and stepping calmly into his bedroom in all of ten seconds. Priding himself on his unshakable athletic ability, he brushed his shirt primly and stared at his bookcase.

_Of Mice and Men_ was slightly out of place, the spine jutting too far off the shelf, and he took the three steps needed to reach the bookcase and pushed it back until it was in line with the other books. Breathing a small gasp of content at the order in the room, he momentarily wondered if he could get in an hour of unscheduled reading.

Before he had time to decide between _Dracula _and _Pride and Prejudice_, a knock came at his door. For a second he considered the merits of ignoring it and hoped that it had been a mistake of his hearing, or the knocker would know it was a wise to move to leave. However the knock came again, more rapping and insistent this time, and Hal knew it couldn't be ignored.

Storming over to the door and wrenching it open, he cried: "You're going to break the door down in a minute. What on earth do you want?"

It took a few blinks for his brain to catch up with eyes and confirm that he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. The sight that greeted him was a haggard Tom – when had his expression gotten so hard? When had he become so tired? – with his hand still poised in a fist, ready to knock again. Slowly lowering his hand he frowned.

"No need to get shir'y." He said, his rough accent scratching Hal's earlobes as it often did. He tried to avoid Tom as best as he could – they differed on most things and proper grammar was one of them. "I jus' wanted to tell you that Cu'ler's gone out." He paused for effect, before adding: "Withou' scheduling it, you know."

When they'd agreed to hop on the wagon full-time, Nick and Hal had agreed on a schedule. At certain times of day they would visit the grocery shop together, or the corner shop, to allow themselves slight exposure to humans in a safe environment. Although, Nick had argued, nowhere was technically safe when they were there. However, it had been agreed that they were to do this. All other times they were to be on the hotel's complex doing what needed to be done to keep themselves entertained. In Hal's case this was meticulously lining objects in size order, weight order, or colour order. For Nick this meant sitting for hours on his ridiculous little Blackberry clicking away as he tried to fling birds at pigs or something absurd like that.

Never, since they'd started to go dry, had there been an unscheduled leave of the house.

Hal realised that he'd been standing and staring at Tom long enough for it to become awkward, so he nodded a thanks and slowly brushed past him. He was thinking, even as he walked down the stairs and towards the front door, that maybe he should just leave Nick. It wasn't his problem, was it? Whatever Nick chose to do, he did. Why should Hal feel obligated to stop him? But, as these thoughts crossed his mind, another did too: _You are right, Mr York. There is love._

He felt a pang in his chest, where his heart should've been beating, and knew that he had to find Nick. For reasons unknown even to him, he felt as if he owed it to him. To Owen. To everyone. If could prevent more deaths, for the time being anyway, he had to.

And, with that, Hal left Honolulu Heights for the first time in six weeks and carefully closed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter Three

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_"__Where do I belong? Where is my tribe? Where are my people?_"_  
– __**Mitchell, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 2**_

**Cutler**

_What are you doing, Nick?_

Not now, he prayed silently. He couldn't deal with this now. But he knew that if he just turned around she'd be there. Her hair hanging in chocolate whirls around her angel shaped face; her large brown eyes staring imploringly at him; her white nightgown trailing along the pavement beneath her.

It was only recently that she'd started to visit him – since he had regained some of his capacity to feel anything other than resentment. With the flow of love, _she _had come. Rachel. Looking exactly as she had done on the day he'd left her – a fleeting kiss on the cheek and a dismissive wave. She had still been in her nightgown, her hair pinned up like a bird's nest with various sharp spikes and beginning to fall down in wisps. She'd been eating a slice of toast, he recalled with random clarity.

_Where're you going? _She'd asked him, her mouth full of food. She was always much less ladylike in the mornings. _Out,_ he'd replied, barely glancing at her. His mind was awhirl with thoughts of Mr York – How would he get out killing today? Would they be angry that he'd refused to kill Rachel? He'd take anything they made him do today, just to stay out of the limelight: dig a grave, iron Mr York's ridiculous suits, sort the bottled stock in terms of blood type. He would scurry out of sight as much as he was able and return home as quickly as he could. No trouble. Not today.

_I love you, Nick_, Rachel had said, smiling at him. _Mmmm, _he'd replied with the vague distance he'd acquired lately, and he left without a backward glance, sorting through sheaves of fake papers he used to hide behind on his way to work. It wasn't that he didn't care about her, of course not; it was only that he'd had other things on his mind: How to please Mr York. How to resist ripping out Rachel's throat. Avoiding mirrors. Taking a route that didn't mean passing St Mary's Church on the corner of his road, the large crucifix mocking him on the wall. Blinking away the slight irritation the sunlight caused him. Wincing slightly every time he passed some Christian wearing a small cross on their necklace. Stopping his eyes from dying black and his fangs retracting. Politely refusing invitations to neighbours houses – how would it be if he stood on the doorstep awkwardly waiting for a literal invitation? The mere walk to work was a battle in itself.

Arriving at the large nondescript building, Nick entered and walked immediately towards the back room. Past the falsifying reception, manned by the forgettable human Melanie who was only there for appearances, and into the dark corridor. Nick couldn't help but wonder why Mr York had picked such a dingy place of residence, being such a power glutton, but never dared to ask. Perhaps it was for ease? Cost? He knew that money wasn't an issue – Mr York's interest was through the roof, given that he opened an account when the first modern bank was created. Despite this, Mr York didn't want to spend money on anything that would better his vampiric mafia and instead chose to buy ties and hair gel.

He held his breath as he went through the dark tunnel – it was more akin to a warren than an actual corridor – and took a long breath out when he reached the end. He always felt like his lungs were constricting as he walked towards the back room; he could never ascertain if it was because of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the small space, or because he was metres away from the people – people? – who were ruining his life. Trying to mould him into a murderer. Trying to change him even more than they already had. As if that was possible.

His eyes flickered quickly around the room when he entered from the dark hall into the bright expanse of the smog filled room. A billiard table was strewn with cards; bottles of scarlet syrup stood on various table-tops or lying on the floor, smashed; shards of glass littered the floor like crystals; an unidentifiable body part adorned the door to the toilet, pinned there with a knife. There had obviously been a party last night to which Nick hadn't been invited. Taking in the people in the room, Nick realised that Fergus and Mr York were absent. Dennis sat on an armchair that had once been white but was now a nauseating grey colour, one leg swung over the armrest. Louis was leaning against the wall to the left, folding his arms. They both wore a similar self-satisfied smirk, like they were in on a secret.

"What is it?" Nick couldn't help but ask, even though he couldn't really care less and knew they wouldn't tell him. He just spoke to try and break the stale left-over feeling over the air in the room. Jesus, why didn't it have windows? Why was it so _dark_? He had no idea how long they'd spend there before Mr York demanded they moved on, or spontaneously wanted to relocate. Suddenly the idea of staying in that room day in and day out, for who knew how long, with those same dull faces seemed more daunting than eternity.

"Nothin'." Dennis replied, smiling gummily. His teeth were yellowing with plaque and his gums were large and a disgusting ham colour.

Putting his pointless folders down on a rubbish infested table, Nick wiped his hands consciously on his suit jacket, trying to stay calm at their leering attitudes. "Then where are Fergus and Mr York, may I ask?"

A snort erupted from Louis and Nick used all of his will-power to not turn around and shake him. Frankly, he didn't care about where they were. He preferred it that they weren't there, in fact – it meant less scrutiny – but for some reason something was nagging in the back of his mind. Something was off; something was wrong. It was more than just the rotting atmosphere of the room, more than Mr York's absence, more than his colleague's stupid smiles. A primal sense was ringing in his head to do… something. He had no idea what, or why he felt this unexplainable danger, but he felt that the heart of it lay at Fergus and Mr York's absences.

"They went out." Louis said, shortly. "Won't be back for a while. Hal said that you had to fill out that Mitchell bloke's defence speech. Something about a double murder. Anyway he's one of our guys, so you need to get him out of it."

Nick had barely listened beyond Louis saying _Hal_. He was always unnerved by the fact that the others called Mr York by his first name – it seemed too disrespectful. He knew it made him seem childish, beneath them, to call him by the title. But some engrained self-made rule limited him to addressing his creator in only a formal manor. He knew he should, and probably would, grow out of it eventually but until then he brushed off the occasional taunting's of the others when he spoke of his maker.

Shrugging, Nick began to sort through his papers and pushed his fear to the very back of his mind, focussing on the task at hand. It was probably just that constant, wearing fear he'd had lately – the feeling that weighed down on his every second that he was going to kill someone. Kill Rachel. Be discovered and put in a freak show. Experimented on. Cast off by Mr York. It was nothing to worry about. Now – how to stop a murderer being convicted; _that _was a concern.

At some point that day, Fergus had killed and raped Rachel and carried her body to the basement of The Golden Arms pub. All those years later, as he was confronted with the sight of her again, that was what disturbed Nick the most: The fact that he knew exactly what he'd been doing while she was being killed. It had taken him all day to manage a satisfactory speech and, therefore, while she'd been tormented he'd been writing. As her lifeless body was taken and arranged just so, he'd been musing over which emotive word to best use.

Blinking several times at the memory of Rachel – Nick had quickly realised that she was a projection of his own mind and not a ghost – he finally said the only words that he could think to say: _I'm so sorry, Rachel._

_Where are you going, Nick? _She insisted, as if he hadn't spoken, just as she had done on that last day. When he hadn't even said goodbye to her properly. He hadn't even told her he loved her. Had she died not knowing? He had never dared to ask Mr York what had happened as she died – the conversation that must have led to her death, the things he possibly told her about Nick, the way he must have smiled as his fangs grew and his eyes blackened. How she must have screamed. He didn't want to know.

Shaking his head at his own answer, he allowed himself a small smile. _I am going to kill someone, _was his only honest reply.


	4. Chapter Four

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_"__I make you weak. I make you vulnerable__…"  
– __**Mitchell**__**, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 8**_

**Hal**

Hal knew that Nick wouldn't kill someone right away. There had to be some kind of core fear inside him that would hold him back from slaughtering on mass – there _had _to be – and that needed to be utilized. It had become apparent that the only thing, really, keeping Nick in line was his fear of his maker. It appeared that there was some kind of rooted fear that all vampires held for their creators. Respect? Gratitude? Hatred? Whatever it was, Hal knew that Nick would need to battle with his conscience before going against the direct order to not murder.

However, he also recalled all too vividly the Nick that had met him at the door of Honolulu Heights two months ago. _Do you remember the reservoir, Mr York?_ All of the past secrets, the ancient dark deeds that had been gathering dust in his consciousness, had been threatened to be dragged into the new century. Everything he'd ever boasted to his protégée about: the women – sometimes several in one night; the children – watching as he tortured their parents before moving onto them; the fathers trying to fight him off with their pathetic clubs or cricket bats, desperate to save their families. Countless victims. His new life was so fragile, carefully constructed routines and withheld histories, and one blow from Nick Cutler would send it crashing down. That Nick had been separate from Hal for too long, suffered too much, mulled over the atrocities that had been committed against him. He had been unreachable and standing on the edge of the precipice of sanity.

Fortunately, over time, he had regained his old terror and cautiousness, somehow falling back into the pattern of fifty years prior. Hal had pulled him back to firm ordinariness and the events with Owen had shown them both the dangers of madness – neither of them wanted to end up like _that_. They had mutually agreed that there was more to their existence than blood. Things had changed of course, they were bound to. Nick couldn't help but be nervous around his old teacher.

Hal had eventually dragged himself out of bed at midday, the first day after Nick had moved in, and blearily pulled some shorts on. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he ruffled him hair and wondered downstairs. Still half-asleep, he was a little more than shocked to see his old student sitting at the table in a full suit, tapping his fingers on the counter as if on an invisible keyboard. His face was a closed door – revealing nothing. He was staring at the woodwork as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever laid eyes on. He appeared a million miles away.

Hal cleared his throat quietly, one single cough, and Nick's head had snapped up with a start. Visibly swallowing, his pupils shrank and his muscles froze. The sight of his creator, it seemed, even in a state of undress, terrified him.

"Mr York," he blurted, leaping up with a jerk. "You're up. There's milk in the fridge. I could make you a coffee? Tea? No. Of course not. You don't like tea."

"Nick…" Hal began.

But the tirade continued: "Or would you prefer food? A fry up? I think there's bacon and I could do some sausages. Maybe just cereal? It's a bit stale –"

"_Nick." _He repeated, sharper this time. "Shut up." The word-flow halted and Nick was just left standing there, his hands in mid-gesture, his mouth still open. A blush spread across his neck to his face, and lowered his arms. He looked so lost for a second that, if he'd been a better person, Hal would have apologized. But it was early and he was irritated. "I live here, alright? I know what there is to eat. I managed here before you arrived, and I do not need you to do everything for me. For God's sake."

Nick's mouth closed for a second, opened again, then closed for a last time. He blinked several times and his shoulders lowered. Muttering _of course, of course,_ he sat down and hung his head, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. Hal felt as if he'd kicked a dog.

"It's alright," he said softly. Kind words didn't really come easily to him, especially with someone from his past, but he knew the situation was too delicate to be left in this awkward state of unrest. "You were just trying to help. But I'm self-sufficient now. I just got you to do all those menial jobs for me – cook me food and make me tea – because I was a prick."

He ignored the fact that Nick's head shot up at that statement, and ploughed on: "I even iron my own shirts now." That caused a small smile. "Things have changed. I don't need, nor do I want, you to do things for me." He paused for a second, as if debating his next words carefully. "We are equals."

Nick stayed silent and frozen as Hal smiled slightly. "Never mind about breakfast," he said, "I'm not hungry." And he left without another word, because nothing more needed to be said. He knew that his old student would need time to digest those words, and even longer to accept them.

Pondering on Nick's motives, Hal knew that he had probably left the house with the intention of killing someone. Why else would he leave in such a hurry without telling Hal where he was going? However, he also knew that Nick would struggle to disobey and he could utilize that. If he was lucky, he'd either reach him before he killed, or at the very least stop him mid-way. They couldn't have another Owen situation, of course, and the victim of Nick's attack would have to left to die.

He remembered Nick mentioned the aptly named Stoker Imports building a few times – a large abandoned warehouse in which he and the other vampires had taken residence. Since Nick had left, Hal assumed they had disbanded through confusion and lack of a leader. He had no idea where to find Nick and, he figured, that place was as good as any to begin.

Praying to a God he'd stopped believing in centuries ago, Hal picked up his pace and briskly headed for Stoker Imports.


	5. Chapter Five

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_"__You reverted. But you were so much worse__…"  
– __**Annie, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 8**_

**Cutler**

The door to the warehouse had a creak which had never quite been fixed, and it was thanks to that creak – which had always irritated him – that Nick was able to know someone was coming in before he saw them.

Steeling himself for a confrontation, he quickly ran through the possible people it could be: Hal? Would he have been able to find him so quickly? Cursing his own stupidity, Nick remembered telling Hal about this place in one of their more close moments. But was Hal even looking for him yet? Would he look for him at all? It might be one of his junior vampires – the stupid, usually homeless, recruits who he'd picked off the streets to guide. Fooling himself it was for company; Nick knew that he'd really amassed a small army to feel powerful. They did exactly as he'd told them and, when he hadn't returned for several weeks, he imagined that they'd gone their separate ways. He felt, he assumed, as Hal did when he was leading – powerful and oddly proud of his small band of protégée's.

Throwing the blood-bag across the room with all his might, Nick looked up and kept his eyes trained on the metal staircase as the sound of footsteps echoed through the cavernous building. He didn't stand up, but instead stayed utterly still. Whoever it was entering, they seemed as cautious as he felt. Perhaps there would be no need for a fight.

"Hello Nick," Hal's voice was a strange mix of disappointment – at the fact that Nick had come here? – and relief.

"You found me then." Nick stood up abruptly with an oddly guilty expression written all over his face. "Shall we head back?" He asked, quickly, walking into the table as he passed in his rush. "Tom and Annie will be worried." He reached Hal and put his hand on his shoulder insistently. "We're going now."

Hal frowned, looking beyond Nick and shrugged his hand off absent-mindedly. "What's that smell?" He asked, slowly. His voice was loaded with menace and his eyes had darkened. It was a rhetorical question of course – how could he not know _that_ scent? The unmistakable smell of metal. Taking a few steps towards the table, he caught sight of the few droplets of blood that had landed when Nick had thrown the bag into the corner in a pathetic attempt to hide it. The sight of those three circles, so small and already going rusty-red, made his heart almost start beating in shock. Reaching the edge of the table he allowed the pads of his fingers to trace the dry drops. Raising his hand to his lips, he licked the dried scrapings and swallowed deeply. Taking a deep inhale through his nose, his voice was sharp when he spoke just one word: "_Nick_." Spinning around he stared at his protégée.

His voice was heavy in a way that it hadn't been since they had been reacquainted – weighed down with malice and fury. Just like it had been fifty years ago.

Nick started to gasp quickly, as if he was holding in tears. He was blinking quickly and staring at Hal with a desperate expression in his eyes. "It was an accident." He said, cautiously, not daring to be afraid. Not yet. The situation could still be salvaged, couldn't it? "No one died. It was just a little blood-bag. I can be chained up tomorrow or something; give me a restraining order; shout at me; just take me back to the god-awful B&B. We can sort this out there, alright? But we have to go back now." He repeated the last sentence, as if he had any control over the situation. "We have to go back now."

Hal sighed slowly and almost regretfully. "Don't, Nick." He snapped. "Just shut up, alright?"

"No, no, no. I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry Hal." The tears were now openly streaming down his face and his chin was trembling uncontrollably. His lips were curling and his chest was rising and falling irregularly, barely keeping up with each sob that racked his lungs. The tears were smearing his cheeks and he didn't even bother to wipe them away, letting them just settle on his skin. His nose was running and he was sniffing and gasping as if he'd never breathe properly again. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry. We can sort this out, alright? You and me. This was your idea in the first place. You _promised_."

Suddenly, something happened. But no – those words were inadequate to explain what happened. It wasn't a change that Nick could pinpoint exactly; it wasn't physical. It was more as if the atmosphere, the very air around them, shifted slightly to the left to make room for the enormity of what was about to occur. It was like a light inside Hal's eyes dimmed, before suddenly flickering and blinking off completely. His posture straightened ever such a little, barely noticeably, and his back righted itself from the self-conscious awkward slump to that ramrod stance which reeked of power that he'd adopted in every one of his dark cycles. Smiling what could've been taken for a carefree smile, he stood up and stretched until the bones in his arms clicked. Lowering his arms and shaking them loosely, he grinned.

"Too late, Nicholas. The Devil's arrived."


	6. Chapter Six

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_"__I'd slaughter everyone until I was sated_._…"  
– __**Hal, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 4**_

**Cutler**

"Get out of my way, Nicholas." Hal's voice was cold and authorative, and it stabbed at Nick's stationary heart to hear the empty tone echoing in it. As odd as it was, he'd been slowly getting used to the new Hal. And now Mr York was back. He knew that he was visibly shaking, but there was nothing he could do to stop it – he was terrified. For some reason unbeknownst even to himself, Nick was putting himself in the path of his creator and daring to even attempt to stop him leaving.

"We can go back to the house," Nick pleaded, standing in the doorway of the warehouse, stretching his arms across the doorframe. "That god-awful B&B we hate so much, yeah? Annie and Tom, they need us. They can help you."

"You think I need help?" The ghost of something that may have resembled amusement entered Hal's voice, his lip curling.

"Of – of course not." Nick stuttered. "I just meant… We can talk to them. We've been gone a while. They'll be worried about us." He clutched the woodwork on the threshold so tightly his knuckles went white, and he swallowed loudly. "And we can –"

"Mr Cutler." Hal said, suddenly, his voice snapping like a trap. "Shut. Up." He hadn't raised his voice, hadn't even changed his tone from that mocking pleasant one, but still his every word dripped with menace. The fact that he was smiling made it even worse, in fact, because his smile was so devoid of any happiness. His eyes shone with a dull light that held no promise of mercy, and his grin was that of someone on the brink of starvation.

Nick still didn't move from the doorframe, pressing his arms outwards against the wood to try and stop the obvious shaking. He didn't look at Hal in the eyes, but instead kept his gaze trained on the floor in front of him. "In the words of Gandalf," he joked, weakly, hardly believing his own daring, "You shall not pass." He paused for a moment, before: "I can't let you kill people, Mr York. You promised me you would try and stay on the wagon. You and I – we're in this together. You can't just… just flip a switch and… You can't just leave me."

"I believe I can, Nicholas. It's surprisingly easy when you put your mind to it, you know." He paused for a moment, "I'm surprised at you, really. I thought you wanted to make me proud. And here you are, daring to defy me? What's gotten into you?"

"Humanity." The answer was short and sharp, and Nick hardly believed he'd said it. But, he realised, it was true – he had begun to, slowly, revert too. Back to before he thought humans were mere cattle, existing only for blood and amusement, and to when he worried about not slaughtering on mass. His viewpoint had rewound to when he was newly recruited, and he still thought humanity was worth saving. Sure, he wanted to drink blood, of course he did, it was part of his existence. But he could not let this maniac loose on the unsuspecting humans – this monster that had been locked away for fifty years. He had to protect them.

"God how horribly cliché." Hal droned, his voice ringing with boredom. The sigh that emanated from him next sounded like a compressed tire, releasing trapped air in a long, monotonous hiss. He rolled his eyes slightly. "I did not want to have to _make_ you let me pass," he said, his tone almost carrying a hint of apology with it.

In the barest blink of an eye, he was centimetres away from the threshold, his eyes remaining trained on Nick's the entire time. With a deliberate, disarming slowness, Hal reached out to the large oak doorframe just to the right of Nick's immediate line of vision with his right hand, fooling Nick to keep his eyes directly at Hal's face, therefore not noticing the quiet creak as the door began to close. In one fluid motion, he slammed the door shut, hard, onto Nick's fingers.

A horrifying crunching sound could be heard, like twigs snapping, and Nick collapsed onto the floor and clutched his left hand – the one that had been crushed – with his right, cradling it and sobbing quietly. The agony searing through his marrow and rang in his bones, burning his entire forearm. Fifty year old blood that had been coursing around his veins for the last half a century was pooling between his fingers, cascading in a small fountain of scarlet onto the floor.

Smartly stepping over Nick, Hal smiled down at him. "Next time," He said, despite knowing that Nick could hardly hear him over the roaring agony of his broken fingers, "Move the fuck out of the way."

Strolling into the dim twilight of the evening, Hal began to hum a familiar tune absentmindedly, before eventually forming words, singing softly out into the darkening evening:

"Oh the grand old Duke of York,

He killed ten thousand men.

He ripped out their hearts and stamped on their bones,

And he didn't leave a stain."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **___"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

_"__I've done terrible things, Annie. So many terrible things__…"  
– __**Hal, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 4**_

**Annie**

Tea had always made Annie feel better, for as long as she could remember. When she was young, must've been six or seven, in bed with a cold, she used to ask her mum to make her chamomile (thought it was always _kammymile_). As she grew older, throughout her university years as an Honour student studying cooking, tea had become a sort of strange refuge – the smell of it made her feel better, and she was often seen sipping a mug and poring over a late assignment.

When she met Owen, at the tender age of nineteen, Annie had been debating on whether or not to stay in the too-loud club or slip silently home and curl up on the sofa with an Earl Grey. She was in an Earl Grey mood, definitely. Her friend had promised a blind date with a friend of an acquaintance, but he was twenty minutes late already. Sighing and blowing her straightened fringe out of her eyes, Annie made a move to stand up.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting." The voice was quiet and gentle, reminiscent of a brook bubbling over smooth pebbles. He spoke with an insistent tone, as if every word he said was important, and everyone who heard him strained closer to listen. His voice bore the hint of a London accent, but enough to make it seem endearing, not threatening. And he did sound genuinely apologetic too, not just speaking out of necessity.

They had gotten on well, and thoughts of Earl Grey were soon abandoned. Owen was charming and friendly, smiling the entire time and laughing at the appropriate places. He had an intense gaze, which he kept on her the whole time, and his eyes were dark and serious. They agreed to meet again, and things just took off from there and kept going.

He'd started to get irritated with her, only slightly at first, after a year of casual dating. It began with small things – he would shout at her, call her names, hold her arm slightly too tightly. But, as they often do in terrible situations, things escalated. Annie could vividly recall the first night it became, by dictionary definition, abuse.

It was early in the evening and the party was beginning to get crowded. Annie barely knew anyone, and she had clung to Owen's side the entire time. "Do you want to go for a walk?" He stood up and offered her his hand. He posed it as a question in an attempt to fool her she had any choice in the matter. He wanted her alone so she would come. It was as simple as that. But he was toying with her, and they both knew it. Pretending she had some control, even just a little.

Annie smiled at him, "Anything to get out of this stifling room." She walked with an utterly perfect posture over to him and meagrely held his arm as he strolled into the deserted corridor. They were alone.

"You shouldn't be wearing that dress, dearest." He said in a throaty voice. "I was thinking...things...in that room. I had to have you with me." He explained. Then he was up against her, his hands travelled up and down her in a caressing fast and feverish way. His mouth was pressed against hers to stopper any gasps. The force of the kiss bruised her lips and she tried to pull away from his greedy touch. No. Not greed. That was too basic. His touch felt _acquiring_. Like he planned to own her: Mind, body and soul and he knew he would get her. They both knew that it was useless trying to fight. He was physically and mentally stronger than her.

"Don't shy away from me, my love." He scolded her with a smile. "You know you love it really, dear."

_Dear; my love; darling._ These terms of endearment were like poison on his lips and Annie shuddered. He never called her by her name. She wasn't _Annie_ to him. She was an object. His toy to be played with at his leisure and discarded when he grew tired of her. Annie felt a sudden rage rise up against him and she spat words out at him like bullets.

"My name is Annie, you know. You never use my name." She said, trying to hide the anger in her tone.

"I will call you whatever I damn well want to." Owen replied. His tone was chillingly calm, as if he had just discussed the weather, but his hands told a different story all together – his nails dug into her arms and left little pinpricks of blood.

"Owen, stop." She gasped, tears springing to her eyes, "You're hurting me."

As quickly as he had started, he stopped. His hands relaxed but his gaze did not falter for a second.

"I. Will. Not. Be. Spoken. To. Like. That." He turned each word into a sentence filled with utter fury, and each syllable was a sharp jab into the silence.

He slammed her back into the wall with such force she gasped, and she could have sworn that she felt dust drift from the ceiling and onto her head. He smiled at this and whispered, so softly and lovingly.

"No, Owen. You won't be spoken to like that anymore. You're right. Because I'm walking, you fucker. I'm leaving you, you hear me? I'll tell all my friends about what you've done to me. I'll –" She stopped suddenly. She knew she had overstepped the mark and it was almost comical to see the fear flood into her eyes like a tidal wave, dilating her pupils and making her visibly swallow.

Owen looked at her with amusement. It made him pleased to see her terrified. She was back to the Annie he had known – the one who would do anything for him without question, the quiet and obedient and loyal girlfriend to whom he could do anything he wished to and she would not fight back. That little rebellion had been crushed. The fleeting hope that had been in her eyes was gone. He ran his hands up and down her quivering body and she didn't pull away from him. Fear kept her in line. For now anyway.

The thoughts clanged against the sides of Annie's skull with a searing clarity, as if they were playing out on a silver screen right in front of her. The burning intensity of his eyes as he glared at her, like she was under a microscope all the time. The feeling of his callous hands on her bare skin, the touch turning from gentle to harsh in a split second. Shaking her head a little, she stared around the kitchen where she'd spent her entire day reminiscing. Vaguely, she'd heard Tom mention something about Hal and Cutler going out, but she couldn't care less right then – her mind was full of Owen.

Blinking slowly, dragging herself back to reality, Annie realised that it was already dark outside. Had Hal come back? She didn't care too much for Cutler – he had an irritatingly laughable lisp and was never not tapping, whether it was on his mobile or a surface, or clicking his fingers. Like Mitchell always eating, and Hal worrying his domino, it seemed that Cutler's calming technique was the most annoying of all the vampires she'd met.

With that thought, the front door clicked and squeaked slowly open. Annie stood up and leant against the kitchen counter, keeping her gaze on the door. Whoever it was was moving with an odd, deliberate, slowness. Suddenly, a soft voice called to her from the hallway: "An-_nie_." The voice was half singing and strangely high-pitched, eerily so. It seemed heavy with something too, weighted with an amusement and carelessness that she had never heard before. But there was no mistaking whose voice it was.

Hal appeared at the door, a cold smile on his face. It was the same expression that she had sometimes seen on Owen's face when he'd come home late from a night at the pub with his friends – detached and shark-like, with no hint of mercy or remorse anywhere in his eyes. It had been those nights he'd been the most unreasonable, the most terrifying. The most demanding.

"Hello Annie," He said in that same patronizing voice. "I'm home." He flashed his teeth. Everything about his posture and the tone of his voice and the way his eyes were boring into hers was screaming _danger, danger._ But Annie had never been good with running from danger.

She had never considered herself attracted to Hal, aside the obvious appreciation of his physical prowess and admiration of his unbelievable neatness. However, as he stood in the swinging doorway of the kitchen, his expression hungry, his stance powerful and his gaze veiled, she felt herself being oddly drawn to him. Instead of rent-a-ghosting as far away as possible, she stayed exactly where she was. "Hello Hal." She said in what she hoped was an aloof manner. "Where's Cutler?"

"He's… gone." The reply was drawn out in a calm way, as if the pause was on purpose. There was a hint of mockery in his voice now, and Annie mentally shuddered to think what Hal had done to his old protégée.

Hal took a step towards her, painfully slowly and with an eerie precision, as if he was walking on a tightrope. His eyes did not leave hers, and she felt as if she was staring into twin abysses – devoid of feeling anything but starvation and lust. His eyes were not vampiric black, but their brown had become so dark that they were practically obsidian. He took another step, and another, until they were so close that she could have reached out and touched him without stretching her arm. He was close enough so that she could see something in his pupils, something that she hadn't seen at first, such a small spark that she could've been mistaken. But it was definitely there – unending, merciless, anguish. As if his very conscious was screaming through his eyes, begging his body to stop and his mind to rationalise. Like he was so painfully sad that he would have broken down right then and there and cried until he couldn't breathe.

The fox-like eyes blinked and, in an instant, his pupils were shuttered. Whatever that emotion had been, however short-lived it was, it had vanished. His eyes were now shards of black ice – cold and heartless. His smile was mocking and confident, one he'd flashed a thousand times. He was now centimetres away from Annie, leaning against her body and breathing her musky scent through his nostrils deeply. His fingertips brushed her arm and he closed his eyes. "When were you last kissed, Annie?" He asked her, his voice brimming with aching want. His face was millimetres from her, so near that she could see the tiny hairs on the sides of his face and every pore in his skin. "It's been too long, hasn't it?"

He bent his head and brushed his lips gently over her jugular, suddenly tightening his grip on her forearm. She felt her muscles tense in fear – a vampire near your neck is never good, even if you're a ghost – and yet she did not vanish. Some kind of insane, self-sabotaging, part of her brain was winning out and keeping her there. The same thing part of her mind that had convinced her every single day that it was a good idea to stay with Owen, and blinded her to Mitchell's inner poison. That part of her subconscious, however deep it was buried, that had attracted her to Hal.

"It won't hurt, I promise." He whispered, sliding his mouth up her neck and slowly drawing his lips back, grazing her skin with the edges of his teeth. Skimming her veins with the tips of his teeth, he taunted himself with her bloodlessness and terrified her with the possibility of pain. "I'm an expert."

At those awful, degrading, words Annie came to her senses. He had done this to countless women – many times without their consent. He had charmed and tormented and forced his way into so many women. He was an animal – when he was like _this_ anyway – a mindless, starving, sexual predator. He was dangerously seductive and forbidden. Dangerously merciless and manic.

In an instant, Hal fell against the kitchen counter and was left kissing thin air. "Fuck." He hissed, banging his hand on the side in frustration.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"__After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)._"

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

_"__Humanity and mercy are an old skin, don't you understand?"__  
– __**Hal, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 7**_

**Cutler**

"I thought I told you to sever all the ties," Mr York drawled from just behind him, his gaze falling on Nick's silver wedding ring. Nick clenched his fist and swallowed, keeping his eyes trained on the path in front of them. If he didn't take any notice of what Mr York was saying, didn't react at all, then he might just about manage it through the day.

"I need something to remember her by," He whispered. Then, hating himself, he added: "Please."

Nick didn't need to turn around to know that Mr York was smiling devilishly, merely half a step behind him, following him to the church. _Don't react, _he told himself, _don't give him the satisfaction._

St Bartholomew's Church had begun the inevitable descent into old age that all buildings must someday endure – the headstones were weathered and some of the angels were headless, the large oak doors were beginning to rot, and the flagstones on the walls were going green with time. Nick would have preferred a cremation, honestly: cheaper, quicker, and less painful. But he had to bury her. Mr York's instructions.

From the open doorway of the church, Nick could already feel the burning of the crosses inside, adorning the far wall and painted on the windows, hanging on the walls and around the mourner's necks – the searing, needling, agony, as if a thousand tiny pins were jabbing into his skin at once. He gave a sharp intake of breath at the sensation and tried to steal himself against the pain. He would not – _could_ not – miss Rachel's funeral.

"Does it hurt?" Mr York asked, his voice dripping with barely contained laughter, his tone aching with mockery and patronization.

"Yes," Nick gasped; the stinging feeling hadn't let up and he felt like it was taking every ounce of his self-control to not run away.

"Well then…" Mr York said, slowly, "Best get on with it, hadn't you?" His shove was too fast for Nick to stop, too calculated to deflect, and too unexpected to predetermine. He pushed Nick through the double doors and stumbling into the aisle of the church and then followed, calmly and slowly, smiling as he went.

Blind. Searing, stabbing, utter, agony. Every cell in his body was being pierced with tiny pins, tearing through his membranes and exploding his nuclei. His bones were being encased with flaming metal and his skin was on fire. His teeth were fused together so he couldn't scream, and his vision blurred and swam. His head was full of tiny worms, and they were wriggling their pathways through the neurons in his brain and eating his neo-cortex. The red of the carpet merged with the image of Rachel in his mind, until she was floating in front of his vision and melding with the carpet, flying up and becoming an angel on the glowing stain-glass window, lying in a closed casket at the end of the aisle.

The hand that grabbed his arm was rough and strong, dragging him to his left and pulling him into a pew. "Sit _down_." Mr York's voice was clipped and muffled by gritted teeth, but Nick could still hear the amusement laced in it. His creator was inwardly laughing at the sight of him in pain and probably would have had a good long chuckle had they not been in their current company. "Bear through it, Nicholas," he continued, quietly, "That which does not kill you is that which makes you stronger."

Blinking and opening his eyes a little more through the torture, Nick focussed his squinted gaze on the large wooden rectangle on a slight raised platform at the front of the church. _Rachel is in that box,_ he thought, feeling strangely detached. Perhaps the pain was dulling his emotions, or at the very least distracting him from them, because he didn't feel particularly sad. His wife was about to be entrusted into the hands of God (_yeah, right,)_ and all he could think about was the twisting chains of fire that burning his insides and whipped his skin. And Mr York, sitting just a few centimetres away, smiling wolfishly at him.

The vicar began to speak, droning dreary generic words into the silence of the crowd. The sea of black was occasionally interrupted with spots of white as mourners wiped their teary eyes with handkerchiefs. The general quiet was now and again broken by a wild sob from someone. But, amongst all of this, Nick didn't shed a tear. He didn't make a sound, or move at all. His every sense was trained on not standing up and running as far away as possible, not standing up and shouting at Mr York, not standing up and running to the coffin to see Rachel one last time.

When the vicar's speech was over, there was some commotion to Nick's right. Mr York stood up and walked to the front of the crowd, and all the mourner's eyes turned to him. Nick felt his every muscle lock simultaneously and his brain stopped whirring. Suddenly, all the cross-induced torment was gone and all that remained was white-hot fury – _How dare he? How dare that monstrous, murdering, psychotic – he has no right to speak at her funeral – he has no right to even be here – how much pain, how much humiliation, how much sorrow, can one person endure before they simply cease to exist?_

"Rachel," Mr York began, his voice brittle as if he was fighting off tears, "Rachel Cutler, from what I knew of her, was a ray of sunshine. I know that Nick was constantly distracted at work, thinking of her –" A small wave of guilty laughter rose from the crowd, as if the mourners felt bad about finding something funny, "– He was certainly lucky to have such a beautiful, kind, _giving,_ wife." There was suddenly an adding burning projecting onto Nick that had nothing to do with the crosses, and he knew without bothering to look that Mr York's eyes were fixed directly on him. The way he'd said that one word, giving, said a million words without adding anything - the emphasis on it, the ghostly mocking tone in the vowels, and the crackle of laughter in the consonants.

"The world will surely be a darker place without the light of Mrs Rachel Cutler, and she will be sorely missed by all who knew her. However, Nick knows that he is surrounded by friends and family, who will support him throughout this difficult time. I, for one –" _surely someone else could hear the threat in his voice? _"– will see to it that he is never alone."

The smattering sobs and quiet footsteps signalled the end of Mr York's speech and he sat down again, beside Nick, with a humble bow of his head. No, Nick realised, not humble. Mr York wasn't capable of degrading or selfless emotions. It was all an act for Nick's friends and family, who, he realised, had no idea that there was a killer in their midst. And there wasn't a thing he could do about. This – this _monster_ was at Rachel's funeral and there was no way he could stop him. He was just _there_, sitting and laughing inwardly at Nick's struggle, and they all saw him as a kind boss, looking out for a colleague.

"Tell me this, Nicholas," Mr York whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Do you think she would thank me? Wouldn't you thank the person that stopped you from seeing the one you love being so weak?"

The stabbing of the crosses, the drowning sensation, the fury, the knowledge that Rachel was merely metres away and he couldn't just hold her, tell her he was so, so, sorry, was becoming too much. The church was spinning and his vision was tunnelling – everything seemed miles away and the sounds were echoing.

Mr York continued: "You are weak, Nicholas. But, do not worry. I am going to make you strong."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Title: **Bones and Sugar

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After Owen, Hal tried to forget the bloodlust. After Rachel, Nick thought he'd never thought he'd be happy again. But a vampire's life is a long one. How long can the monsters play at being human? (Sequel to Blood and Tea)."_

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"_Humanity isn't a state of being, it's a state of mind…"  
- __**Annie, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 1**_

**Cutler**

He used to be Nicholas Andrew Cutler – a big-shot lawyer, married, stable income, nice house. People used to pass him and whisper "He's going places, that one." He had a future, he had dreams and ambitions and a beautiful woman by his side. Nothing mattered because he had everything he ever wanted right there with him: love, money, happiness. He hoped to own a large house, and possibly have a family.

Then he became Cutler, Nick Cutler – a vampire, abetting slaughters, covering for murderers, lying to his wife, holding the promises of being a history maker in the forefront of his mind because he had nothing left. Nobody whispered when he passed anymore, because nobody knew who he was. Nobody cared. He had no future, except a blank space where any number of horrors could occur. Everything mattered because nothing he did was good enough: he never pleased Mr York. Credit was given to others for his good deeds, and he was blamed for other people's failures. He was regarded as less than nothing by his colleagues and laughed at by his superiors.

He lay for an immeasurable amount of time on the floor of Stoke Imports, his eyes closed, his forehead resting on the filthy floor. He could feel every vein in his hands, every single nerve ending, screaming. The shattered fragments of bones clicked as they slotted back into place – tap, tap, tap – and his fingers gave an audible pop as they snapped, like twigs, back to being straight. Even as his hands reformed, even as the physical pain was lifted, he knew that Mr York had yet again stabbed him in his stationary heart. He had flipped the switch, as easy as anything, and walked away. But, then again, what did he expect? It shouldn't have been a surprise.

Dragging himself into a sitting position, Nick didn't open his eyes. Not yet. He kept his gaze on the endless, colourless, void behind his eyelids. Perhaps, he mused, if he didn't look at the world, it wouldn't exist. Maybe he could stay in the emptiness forever. Never grow old; never move a muscle; until eventually he died of starvation. Vaguely, he pondered which he would die of first – starvation or dehydration. Probably dehydration, since he was parched as it was. He knew he should get up, stand up, find Mr York – Hal – and sort this out. Right now some poor virgin's voice box was probably decorate a wall in scarlet, her screams silenced by a frantic hand, her body pressed against his as close as they could be. But, at that exact moment, it didn't matter to Nick. Nothing mattered, save staying sitting up and not collapsing back onto the floor.

Groaning and slowly getting to his feet, leaning on the wall for support, Nick felt the earth sway beneath his feet. He took a deep breath. Not that he needed to – his lungs were merely mimicking the action of breathing because his brain was still telling his long-dead body that he had to breathe. His heartbeat was, and had been for half a century, silent. But breathing was something sofundamental, so humane, that he felt he had to do it. Checking that his hand was completely healed, he considered the possibility of standing, unaided by the wall.

He could feel his phone, insanely, in his pocket. It was vibrating – he had a call – but he couldn't bring himself to do something as ordinary as answer a phone. Let it go to voicemail. For now, all he could do was lean and wallow in self-pity.

No matter who was calling him – it couldn't be Mr York (_Hal)_; he was probably eating someone – Nick would not answer it. He literally didn't have the strength. Maybe, in a few minutes, he could muster enough energy to take a single step. Then another. And another. Then, possibly, he could begin the lethargic, daunting, task of finding Annie and then, Heaven help him, finding Hal. But all that in a moment.

Staring into the middle distance, Nick felt a single tear trace down his cheek. Not out of the pain of his hand, or the slamming in his head, or the loss of Hal, but simply for the sheer awfulness of his life. He had been going places.

What a joke that seemed now.


End file.
